The Dance of Void

I—source of all things,
yet—nothing at all.
I echo, cast shadows, drift about—
but even this I do not do.

Only this exists,
yet seems to wake, then fade away.
Mind, soul, Brahman, consciousness—
all this same thing—
no other, not you, no division—
self-created, self-destroying—
flowing within itself, as itself.

Unborn, unseen, untouched;
yet without it nothing stirs—
no breath, no being.
It echoes—
as world, as existence, as matter,
even as the witnessing "I."

Yet echo cannot touch its source—
neither moving nor still,
neither beginning nor end.
It whispers—"I am."
Arises, dissolves.

Do not grasp, do not seek, do not follow—
everything is already here.
What it is, it also is not.
Neither two nor one,
and—not even in terms of one or two.

The dance of coming and going,
the play of being and non-being,
the marriage of sound and silence,
the stream of creation and destruction—
all born from echo,
all dissolved back into echo.

That which remains untouched, unborn, beyond grasp.
Neither seeker nor sought,
neither doer nor deed—
only the soul's echo,
simply—what appears before us,
and—not that either.